She has issues,

Missives and directives.

Enough baggage

For a twenty mile freight train

Of spoiled fruit

In the hot Florida sun.

Maybe it was the 30 miles,

I could never be sure

I know that I had no cure

Despite my smiles,

Her lack of frivolity, of fun

Just wasn't cute.

It was never the same,

This rite of passage

Left me restless, subjective,

To lose all of my views.

04/17/2008

Author's Note: ... an implosion poem...

Posted on 04/18/2008
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